Sky Blue Eyes
by Black Fire Ryu
Summary: In a city without sunlight, people keep their heads down and their eyes lowered. Things are safer that way. Too bad Deidara was never one to do what others thought was best. Rated for vampire violence, adult language, and adult themes.
1. A Stranger

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Naruto. Believe me, if I did, things would be _a lot_ different. For instance, I wouldn't kill off all of my favorite characters. That would be a no-no.

**Warnings:** This fic is rated M for adult language, adult themes, and violence. There are homosexual relationships, so please do not read if you find that offensive.

**Dedicated To:** **MistressKaia**. Without her constant nagging and prodding, this story never would have been translated from my mind into words.

* * *

Human beings – mortals, if you will – have always allowed their imaginations to stray to fantastic conclusions about their own otherwise mundane world. Rather than believe that the drought was caused by completely natural means, they choose to think of it as being caused by a vengeful god or a wicked warlock. Their fathers, sons and brothers were not killed by a particularly devastating storm or mudslide, but instead heroically slain by some monstrous beast or dragon. Indeed, in the modern age these explanations seem completely illogical and perhaps even comical, but one must also wonder if society's currently accepted beliefs are merely disguises for mankind's wayward thoughts.

Deidara had never really considered anything about myths or legends before. To him, warlocks and dragons were things you read about in epic fantasy novels. Fairies existed to amuse little girls, and valiant knights gave little boys something either to aspire to become or to make fun of. In Deidara's world, the only evils were his various employers and power-crazed politicians, and good only incarnated itself in those who accepted and appreciated his art. Nonetheless, he found himself staring out of a window and into the rain, pondering the existence of all things supernatural.

It had all started innocently enough. The blond, blue-eyed twenty-six-year old had decided to take his day off from the neighborhood copy store and pay a visit to the museum. Deidara hadn't been to the art museum in quite awhile. He'd visited it often during college and after, dreaming of someday having his works displayed in a gallery so that years later historians like the ones at the museum could argue about his motivation. Getting noticed in the art world proved harder than anticipated, and so Deidara's visits became less and less frequent. People just didn't care much for art, and those who did rarely knew what they were talking about. Deidara's masterpieces went unappreciated and their creator penniless, and so as each year went by without success the blond artist became a little more disheartened. That particular day, however, he found himself itching to get out of his apartment. So, despite the heavy rainfall that was a near-constant plague upon their city, he packed up his sketchpad and pencils and went to pay the art museum a visit.

There was always something comforting about the dim lighting and musty smell of the art museum. Ancient paintings and crumbling statues reminded Deidara of years past, the familiar excitement they brought coursing through his veins like water to a parched throat. While the blond had never agreed with the idea of art being something that could rot in some museum, he respected the passion that the artists had felt while creating what was viewed by many as masterpieces.

After wandering the many halls of the museum and observing the old and the new, Deidara tucked himself away into a bench so that he could sketch out his enthusiasm on paper. His pencil copied what he saw around him: the architecture, the lights and the shadows they created, and the people.

People were probably Deidara's favorite subject. He could give them lives of his choosing on his paper, making a fat woman slim and beautiful, a mousy man handsome and heroic, and a small child a grown adult. Drawing them as they were seemed dull, but altering them to his liking was more than enough entertainment. With his touch, he could transform the most boring person into true art. Deidara only drew a person's exact portrait if he found that person extraordinarily interesting, but that did not happen very often.

Deidara had been drawing for quite a while before he noticed him. It was hard to say how long he had been standing there, for he was as still as the painting he was looking at. Deidara noticed first this stillness. Normally, people moved constantly, always fluttering from one thing to the next like bees to different flowers in a meadow. Their lives were apparently too hectic for them to consider standing still for a moment and enjoy life for what it was. The second thing Deidara noticed was how the other was dressed. Frayed jeans, a loose-fitting black jacket with some sort of striped shirt underneath and a black beanie cap. His attire really wouldn't have seemed out-of-the-ordinary for that part of the city, but it wasn't what one expected from an art museum visitor. In truth, Deidara was dressed similarly, and that might have been the reason for his interest. No one else seemed to notice the man – boy? – who seemed entirely entranced by the painting before him. Upon closer inspection, Deidara could see bright, crimson strands of hair peeking out from beneath his hat. His skin was extremely pale, even with the added shadow of the dim lights.

Deidara's hand had begun moving across the paper of its own accord. He caught the lean form of the art spectator's body, emphasizing the details of his outfit with quick, hard strokes of the pencil. Even in the monochrome sketch, the red-haired male seemed pale. In the city they lived in, however, pale wasn't that out-of-place. Deidara, who had not been born in the city, still found it fascinating.

Perhaps what the artist found so captivating about his new subject was his beauty. It seemed obvious enough by the way that the other was dressed that the redhead did not intend to bring attention to that aspect of himself, but Deidara saw it and quickly became fixated upon it. It took a lot to attract the blond's attention, but once something had it, it took even more to take it away again. Some might have found it obsessive, but Deidara considered them fools. He found himself strongly attracted to this person, and he hadn't even spoken to him yet.

Deidara smiled to himself, taking a moment to look down at his sketch. He had captured the other well, but despite the accuracy, Deidara still felt something was missing. He needed to read the personality from those distant eyes; he needed a voice to go with that pretty face. The redhead hadn't moved for the entire length of time that Deidara had taken to draw him, and yet when the blond looked up again to stand and make contact, the man was gone.

Admittedly, Deidara had been disappointed. It was a rare occasion that the blond let an opportunity like that slip away from him, but to have it snatched away was somehow worse. He took the sketch home that night and perfected it, giving it color, value, shadow; everything but a real personality.

Maybe it was frustration that prompted Deidara to bring the sketch along with him to work the next day, or maybe it was inspiration. Either way, when he showed it to his coworkers, he found himself both amused an annoyed. Amused because he had no idea where his coworkers got half the things they said, and annoyed because he really wished that he had gotten the chance to speak to the subject of his drawing.

"He's pretty hot. Did you draw him because he looked fuckable?"

Deidara grinned, "Oh, yes. I'm all about picking up guys at the art museum."

"I'm all for it. Make sure you get to draw him nude next time so we can see," she responded, winking.

"I will, I will. Right before I bend him over, I will, un."

"Did you actually talk to this guy? He seems a little creepy to me." A laugh.

"Leave it to the straight man to be creeped out." Deidara laughed along with her, then replied reluctantly.

"No, I didn't. He left before I got the chance, un." He frowned slightly.

"That's probably a good thing. He looks like a vampire to me."

"A vampire? During the day? Please! You can't be serious."

"I am serious!"

"Why would a vampire go out in the day to stare at a painting?"

"She's got a point, un."

"I don't know! I just don't like the look of him."

"So you call him a vampire?"

"Well, he's wearing black!

"Psht, you follow stereotypes, un."

"Aren't you three supposed to be doing something?"

After the interruption of their boss, Deidara and his coworkers scattered to help college students and businessmen learn how to use the different copy machines and choose which materials they needed for their assorted projects. Their conversation stuck with Deidara afterward, feeding his growing fixation on his sketch (or, rather, on the man in it). What would make someone classify the redhead, or anyone, for that matter, as a vampire? Sure, he was pale and wore black, but so did the majority of the crowd who haunted that part of town.

For the hell of it, Deidara allowed his mind to wander further. So, what if the guy was a vampire? What were vampires, exactly? Bloodsucking demons who stalked the night with humans as their prey? The notion seemed ridiculous. That guy had been too pretty to actually be some sort of fiend. Then again, movies, books, and comics depicted vampires as beautiful and deadly creatures. Deidara wasn't entirely fond of the sexy vampires pop culture adhered itself to so dearly, finding the wet dreams of woman in their mid-forties being not-so-subtly disguised therein. Oh, sure, the idea of getting laid by some hot vampire was nice enough, but none of it seemed real.

No, the guy at the art museum was no vampire, just as the rain that was falling outside of the window was no sunshine. People had come up with the notion of vampires hundreds of years back as an explanation for illness and disease. Just like witches and warlocks, vampires were mankind's fantastic reasoning for the world's not-so-fantastic troubles. After all, Deidara reasoned, if vampires really existed, someone would have discovered them by now.

Right?

**

* * *

Ending Notes:** I am well aware of the fact that vampire fics are typically bad. I'm trying to change this stereotype, because I love vampires and I see no reason for them to be shoved into the corner with the Mary-Sue's and high school AU's. Not to insult the authors of any of those fics (except for maybe the Mary-Sue writers). I hope that you all stick with this one and give it a chance, and that you enjoy it for what it is. 

**Reviews are subsistence to an author. You don't want me to starve, do you?**


	2. Hesitation

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Naruto. Obviously.

**Warnings:** This fic was rated M for a reason. Use your own judgment as to whether or not you are mature enough to read it.

**Dedicated To:** **MistressKaia** for reminding me about this story and all of the wonderful people who have taken the time to read and review it.

* * *

Deidara opened his eyes groggily, blinking blearily at the red glow that was his alarm clock. The numbers 9:20 shone brightly back at him, causing the blond to roll over with a groan. It was Tuesday. He had the day off. The blond curled into his pillow, looking lethargically around the room. He spotted his cat on the other pillow and smiled lazily.

"Oh, Baby. Last night was the best," he mumbled, pushing himself over to the tan-colored cat and burying his face into its fur. The cat purred lightly, his green eyes mere slits as he inspected his tired owner. Deidara grinned up at him before faking a frown.

"I don't know what you're purring about, pervert. I was referring to the warmth we shared when you laid on my chest, un." Deidara pushed himself up into a sitting position, frown only disappearing when he made eye-contact with the cat again. The grin returned to his face when the cat stood up and stretched. Deidara scratched him lightly behind the ears, shaking his head.

"You know that I'm teasing you." He sighed, leaning back onto his elbows. "How sad am I? Twenty-six, single, waking up at nine-thirty in the morning on my day off with no one to share my bed with but you, C3. I love ya, un, but I seriously need to be discovered." Deidara flopped backward onto his bed, staring at the ceiling as C3 began to groom himself. His grin had faded into a bittersweet smile by the time he added, "Or get laid, un."

After a short shower and a quick breakfast consisting of a piece of toast and a glass of orange juice, Deidara found himself having a staring contest with one of his blank canvases. It had been several weeks since his last visit to the art museum, and he found himself in no better of a position than before. No one was willing to sponsor him, and the small galleries were full. To top it all off Deidara's motivation amounted to nearly nothing.

"Come on, muses," Deidara mumbled, twirling a paint brush around in his hand, "Send me a sign, un."

The canvas countered his glare with its blankness, adding to the blond's growing frustration and in turn feeding his steadily growing depression. He flopped down onto the magazine-covered ground and looked dejectedly up at his easel, kicking his feet idly. After several minutes, he sighed and crossed his legs. C3 batted at a newspaper across the room, and Deidara followed the movement with his eyes.

"No good, C3," he said aloud, his tone deceivingly light. "There's just nothing I want to paint, un."

The small cat paused momentarily to glance at him questioningly, then went back to ripping apart the newspaper. Deidara grinned humorlessly at him, then looked up toward one of his tiny windows. The room was dark, and in the moment of silence he thought he could detect the pitter-patter of rain against the glass. No surprise there. A day without rain in Ame happened about as often as an eclipse.

Deidara sat up and stretched, quickly realizing that he had reached an impasse with his painting. The fact that he hadn't even begun was completely ignored by the blond artist. He glanced over at his alarm clock and then sighed dramatically. 10:11AM. He still had the entire day ahead of him.

"All I need is inspiration, un," he said, pulling himself to his feet. After setting his brush down, he smiled again at his cat. "I believe a quick visit to the museum is in order. God knows I don't want to set foot in one of those idiots' galleries, un."

C3 ignored him, far too preoccupied with the shredded remains of the newspaper. Deidara kicked an empty plastic cup at him and then dug around his apartment in search of his jacket and an umbrella. He paused long enough to pull on a hat and throw his sketchbook and pencils into his messenger bag, then grabbed all of his things and headed out the door.

There was something oddly secluded about walking beneath an umbrella on a rainy day down a crowded city sidewalk. No one made eye-contact with you unless they did not have an umbrella and were sparing you a glare. Those who were fortunate enough to have umbrellas avoided you at all cost, doing everything they could not to tangle up their precious shields against the rain with yours. If Deidara hadn't been used to it, it might have made him lonely. As it stood, however, the blond found it simply annoying. He didn't enjoy the close proximity to people who didn't give a damn about anyone but themselves. He disliked elevators for the same reason. They always made him feel like he was an animal being herded by some unseen force.

The walk to the art museum was a decently long one. Deidara had scanned the buildings that filled each city block on the way there as he always did, hoping that inspiration might jump out at him early. It didn't.

Luckily for Deidara the art museum charged no admission on weekdays. If it hadn't been free, it was extremely doubtful that the blond would have ventured to it time and time again.

Deidara fell into his normal routine, exploring the museum completely along his usual route before sitting down on a bench to observe more of what was around him. The twenty-six-year-old artist dug out his sketchbook and a pencil then took to letting his gaze wander.

Strangely enough, Deidara had chosen the same bench he had sat in the last time he had been to the museum. That didn't stop him from being surprised when he saw _him_ again.

The man he had sketched all of those weeks ago was wearing a very similar outfit to the one Deidara had last seen him in. The same beanie cap, the same frayed jeans, but this time the crimson-haired male had a jacket on over his clothing. Deidara absorbed all of this in mere seconds. He knew the other's appearance as well as the back of his own hand. It was strange, truthfully, because the artist had never spoken a word to the model of his sketch.

The blond made his decision then. His new sketches could wait. He had to talk to the man he found himself so unquestionably drawn to. He packed up his supplies quickly, and then stood to approach the redhead.

Or he would have except that seemed much more difficult than it should have. For some reason Deidara lost his nerve as soon as he got within ten feet of the other male. It didn't make any sense. Deidara wanted to speak with this person and yet his usual unswerving confidence had failed him. Despite all odds, Deidara was scared to walk forward and break the ice. Was his subconscious trying to keep him from loosing the image of perfection he had painted around this individual? He simply couldn't be sure.

As subtly as he could, the blond artist turned his attention to the painting rather than the one who was observing it. The painting was a non-objective piece, done only decades before. It suddenly struck Deidara that this was the piece that the other had been observing the time before as well. Was that a coincidence? It didn't seem likely. The man wasn't moving any more than he had been the other time Deidara had seen him. Did he actually find something interesting enough about this particular painting that made him able to stare at it for hours on end? Deidara wanted to ask. The blond's gaze cut back to the man that was standing not five feet from him. Despite the shorter distance, the redhead's brown, no, green, no, hazel eyes seemed miles away. His smooth, pretty face was drawn into an expression of concentration. Deidara never noticed him blink.

The blond took a deep breath. He had to say something. He might never get another chance. So, pulling at the frayed ends of his confidence, Deidara straightened his posture and took a single step toward the redhead.

"It's an interesting painting, isn't it?" Deidara's voice came out as smooth and solid as ever, which in turn fed his shaken confidence. To his dismay, this got no response. He took a breath and tried again. "Don't you think so?"

Slowly the redhead's gaze shifted toward him. He could feel himself being evaluated by that stare, and it made him somewhat uneasy. There was an emotion he couldn't read in those hazel eyes. After what seemed like and eternity, the redhead spoke.

"Excuse me?" There was a slight accent in the voice that Deidara could only compare to velvet. He couldn't place it, but it piqued his interest and fueled the warm feeling that had spread through his system when the other had spoken.

"The painting," Deidara repeated, gesturing toward said artwork. "I've seen you looking at it before. You must find it extremely interesting."

The redhead's eyes widened slightly. Deidara could read the surprise there, and he wondered if he shouldn't have mentioned seeing the other before. He watched as the redhead quickly regained his slight slip of composure and returned his gaze to the painting. After another long moment, the man spoke once more.

"Perhaps it is not so much interest as it is confusion," he said quietly, shifting subtly. The movement was natural, but it caught Deidara off guard. The artist really hadn't seen the other move, and so he had begun to assume that he couldn't. It was ridiculous, but there it was.

"What do you mean?" Deidara asked, shifting closer under the pretext of getting a better look at the painting. In truth, he was simply glad to actually be speaking to the other. He'd have more to work from when thinking of the redhead later on. With any luck, he'd find a way to stay in the other's company until they could do something a little more interesting than just talk about this painting.

"The message portrayed here doesn't make sense," the redhead said bluntly. "At first glance, one can observe intense sorrow portrayed in both the colors and the brush strokes. The longer you look at it, however, the more joy can be felt emanating from the canvas."

Deidara hadn't expected those words to come from the other man's mouth. It was obvious that he knew what he was talking about, and that excited Deidara. Despite that, the blond found himself disagreeing.

"Did you consider the possibility that you're looking too far into it, un?" Deidara quickly caught the look of disdain the other shot his way, but he continued. "When I paint I don't stop to think about which emotion I want to express. I just _do_ it, un. So people can't ignore it. It's possible that this artist was feeling both joy and sorrow when he was painting this particular piece, but the sorrow was more intense at the time. If I remember right," here Deidara paused, glancing toward the canvas before continuing, "This was painted after the death of the artist's spouse. They're grieving the loss but also celebrating the life they had together. So… Sorrow and joy, but mixed, un."

The other's posture had stiffened slightly. His eyes remained on the painting, but Deidara knew that he had his attention. The redhead's eyebrows had furrowed downward, making him appear more irritated than focused. It struck Deidara that the redhead didn't appreciate people disagreeing with him.

"It's just a thought, un," Deidara said, doing his best not to aggravate the other. That was at the bottom of his list. When the other still didn't reply, he asked, "Do you come here often?"

The redhead's gaze was on him again. He couldn't get over how beautiful the other male was. He wanted desperately to ask him to come back with him to his apartment, but something told him that the redhead wouldn't have accepted such a quick invitation.

"Often enough," he responded at last. Deidara grinned at him.

"I know what you mean, un. It's a good place for inspiration."

The shorter male seemed to evaluate him again. "An artist?"

Deidara could have scoffed at the question. If it had been anyone else, he would have. Instead, however, he offered up another grin. "You could say that, un."

The other smiled slightly in return, and Deidara could feel warmth flooding his entire body. It was ridiculous and made him feel a little too much like a school girl, but he could hardly help himself. There was something closed about the smile, almost secretive. It was then that Deidara noticed the other checking his watch for the time.

"It's been nice speaking with you," the redhead offered politely.

Deidara stifled his disappointment as the other turned and left, responding quietly, "You, too, un."

It wasn't until the redhead had disappeared from sight that Deidara realized that he had forgotten to ask the other's name.

* * *

**Ending Notes:** I have no excuses as to why this took me so long to upload. It's been sitting on my old computer for two years now and I just recently rediscovered it after **APurpleAvacado** left me a review. I'm terribly sorry for the wait, and I'll try to remember my plot and update it between life and school.

**Reviews are subsistence to an author. You don't want me to starve, do you?**


End file.
